


violets, violets, violets…

by wakuseiloop



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 02:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13021827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakuseiloop/pseuds/wakuseiloop
Summary: Excuses about writing, about inspiration, promising to finish soon, it’ll all be fine soon. Promises he can’t fulfill, pain that won’t stop growing, greenhouse of lies and love that won’t let him breathe.





	violets, violets, violets…

By the time Tsuzuru realizes things aren’t right, the vines in his throat have grown out of control. His laptop lays thrown aside, on the edge of the desk and dangling close to a fall that would surely mean work gone to the trash and a loud bang that would wake up the whole dorm in a second. Papers with notes not even he can make sense of decorate the floor, pen scribbles in bright blue and black contrasting with red droplets here and there. His chair is still upright, away from its usual place but safe nonetheless, red stains at the base and nowhere else.

 

Behind him, Usui stirs in peaceful sleep, and Tsuzuru chokes again. The hand over his mouth grips tighter, eyes wide open but looking at nothing as he tries to hold it back, tries to stop the coughing and vomiting that has plagued him for days.

 

It works only for so long, and then he’s coughing, choking and painting the messy floor in blood and beautiful petals and vines that should be anywhere but in his lungs, that should be anywhere but there, a cruel reminder that he’s a nothing but an idiot.

 

With heavy breathing, he picks up discarded pages. Shaking hands make a pile, leave red fingerprints in papers that are already more than worthless, make patterns where there shouldn’t be. He pushes his laptop to safety from the floor, runs a hand through his hair and lets himself fall. The ceiling is too far, too bright even in the darkness, so he focuses on the shadows under the desk that seem to be of some red hue, fresh blood against his skin seeming to turn the world blurrier.

 

He closes his eyes, heavy sleep washing over him as unshed tears burn everything he has left.

 

No one would ask why in the morning, it was fine.

 

\---

 

“Yukishiro-san?” Weak voice and a weak knock on an ever-closed door, but Azuma manages to hear him, quick steps making their way to the door before it opens. 

“Tsuzuru?” Azuma greets him with a smile, and Tsuzuru does his best to smile back despite the pain, mask over his mouth making it hard to breathe and move but necessary. He guesses it doesn’t reach his eyes, cause Azuma’s smile drops into a worried frown.

 

Tsuzuru hasn’t left his room in a few days, worried knocks and Usui’s annoyance being pushed back with excuses. Excuses about writing, about inspiration, promising to finish soon, it’ll all be fine soon. Promises he can’t fulfill, pain that won’t stop growing, greenhouse of lies and love that won’t let him breathe.

 

He coughs, eyes tearing up and hands gripping his jacket weakly. Azuma doesn’t say anything, runs a hand through his hair before moving aside to wordlessly let him in. Tsuzuru doesn’t complain, looks at him with glassy eyes before the violets spring up again and he collapses, knees bruising and breath hitching as Azuma closes the door behind them. Tsuzuru tries, tries his best to hold it all in, to keep the cursed violets from breaking anything else and from ripping apart whatever is left of his throat and lungs and everything. He tries, but it’s not enough, and all he can do is pull the mask off with shaky fingers and lean on Azuma as it all comes out, gross feelings in the shape of violets that invade and take over and dye everything in pretty colours that will never feel right again.

 

He loses track of time, of himself, of Azuma worriedly holding him close and of the coughing that never stops. He loses track, feels himself falling into a trance, away from reality, away from the pain and the blood and his own death that seems to be getting closer with every petal, every vine that grows and leaves and grows again.

 

He opens his eyes to Azuma’s worried gaze, cold floor under him something he’s long gotten used to. He’s on his side, lips tasting like metal and bitter, an untouched glass of water almost outside his reach. He reaches out, pale and unstable, almost like a ghost already, life slipping away with every breath. Azuma’s hand is warm on his hair, quick to get the glass closer, and Tsuzuru watches the small waves that form from the movement before grabbing it, barely able to hold himself up as he drinks. 

 

It barely goes down, way split up like a labyrinth of clots and violets, violets, violets…

 

**Author's Note:**

> stress relief also its 5am dont ask if this doesnt make any sense


End file.
